


Best Beloved

by Darth_Mary_Sue



Category: Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Mary_Sue/pseuds/Darth_Mary_Sue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another "OFC on the Grid" tale.  Not a Mary Sue (I hope) — trying for an Anti-Mary-Sue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Beloved

The first time Jarvis questioned Annie, when she first came to the Grid, she had been alert. In top form. She had told the truth — she knew better than to lie to this creature, whatever the hell he was — but with the best possible spin as regards her self-preservation and esteem.

After the "unfortunate incident," in this latest "debriefing," Annie's answers were flat and literal. She had no energy for spinning. She floated in that flat gray space where zombies dwelt. Occasionally she was jarred from the undead dimension by hysterical weeping. Jarvis bore this patiently. He probably saw it all the time. These spells of human feeling passed quickly. She would resume non-feeling (except for great relief at the loss of emotional torment), dry her eyes, and continue her computer-style replies: Yes. No. I don't know. When clarification was required, she answered as briefly as possible.

Even deep in zombie-land, she wondered if this line of questioning would have roused her ire Before. (Life was now split into Before and After.) It wasn't like she enjoyed discussing her reproductive system. She was no doctor. Maybe her injuries had caused the miscarriage. But maybe it would have happened anyway. Sometimes women lost babies for no apparent reason. Sometimes women held onto their babies under the worst of conditions. There was just no way of knowing exactly why she'd lost hers.

My baby, Annie thought. My son. _His_ son.

She was relieved that she remained a zombie, even with this thought in mind. Maybe she was getting better. Maybe she was turning into a program. Well, strictly speaking, that's what she was already. She was no expert, but she knew that much. Her digitized form was an extremely complex program, but it was still a program. A walking pile of ones and zeroes. An imitation of a human being.

Realistic enough to get knocked up, though. Seemed that was a real big deal. It threw all the programs (other programs) into a tizzy. From their whispers, that hadn't happened here since Clu had wiped out the ISOs. Which was a long, long time ago. Annie had no idea what "a thousand cycles" was, but it was plenty long. She also had no idea what “ISO” meant. Maybe they were also digitized humans. Maybe Clu would finish the job and wipe _her_ out. Fine. She didn’t care any more. Not caring was good. She just wished she weren’t so — so disoriented, like in a gravity-flip or something.

"Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need …" she sang under her breath. God, what she wouldn't give for just one of her Johnny Cash albums. Somewhere in her MP3s of country, blues, gospel, bluegrass … there must be a song that covered her situation. Maybe Bad Blake wrote one when he was good and drunk. Drunker than usual, that is. "I used to be somebody, but now I am somebody else …" No, alcohol would not suffice. You'd have to drop acid to write a song about being dragged onto the Grid.

Last she heard, Bad Blake was back in rehab. Hooray for him. How about I do your drinkin’ for you, Mr. Blake? Yeah, I can imbibe all I want. Which is a lot. Bein’ as I ain’t pregnant no more.

Annie burst into heaving sobs. Jarvis sighed and waited out the storm. Eventually it calmed, and the "debriefing" continued. Yes, she could have another baby. Unless something had got messed up inside. That happened sometimes. No, she didn't know if she was messed up. She could not tell. It was all inside.

Annie had to give Jarvis credit. He was an expert interrogator. No need for violence or even threats; just two civilized beings having a nice, quiet chat. Their conversation was almost friendly. He leisurely teased out any possible contradictions or overlooked data. But she could not help but notice that they were covering the same territory now. He kept at it from different angles, but it all boiled down to: Could she conceive again? Could she carry to term and deliver? She regarded Jarvis passively. An angry little voice in her head sniped, _I'm a secretary, not a doctor._ She told that voice to shut up. She could not afford anger.

She wondered if her beloved boss had any idea what he'd got her into. Never mind; it didn't matter. What mattered was, she’d been nothing to him but a guinea pig. It was pathetic, really. Such a cliché. The secretary falls for her boss, and he screws her in every sense of the word. Well, one day this guinea pig would escape the Grid, and then… No jury would convict her. Even if they did, it would be worth it.

There was no fire to this thought. No anger. Just cool determination. It was a goal that helped her keep going. It was Annie’s promise to herself: one day, she would kill Edward Dillinger, Junior with her own little hands.

It’ll be so good to see you again, Junior. It’ll be so good to have the last laugh. Well, maybe you were right to laugh at me. I knew it was foolish, I knew you were out of my league — smarter than me, hell, prettier than me — but your attentions made me so happy, and I took a leap of faith … No more. No more risks. I have become very risk-averse, Junior. Except I don’t care about the jury. I’ll be your judge and jury, Junior. Then I’ll indulge in a little cruel and unusual punishment. And before I execute you, I’ll tell you exactly how much bigger Clu’s cock is than yours.

~oOo~

A strange being, man-shaped but neither program nor User, emerged from the simulated Flynn’s Arcade. Dressed like a club bouncer, he strolled through the worst part of Tron City, not at all concerned that his out-of-place attire might attract unwanted attention from outlaws or from the law: “Because I’m the embodiment of an eternal principle — I'm Mayhem!” he told a nonexistent audience. “I always show up when and where I'm wanted least."

Mayhem’s theme music began to play in the background when he spotted his ride. He chortled evilly as the Recognizer caught him in its glaring beam. "I'm a Trojan horse. A real nasty one, sneaky, with teeth.” He bared his pearly whites in a smirk.

“Program, where is your disc?”

“I’m going to corrupt you.” Mayhem stuck out his tongue and waggled it obscenely.

“Stray,” said the literal-minded Sentry. He and his partner grabbed the laughing Mayhem and hustled him on board. “I’ll have my wicked way with your subroutines,” leered Mayhem. He was totally unfazed as the Sentries shoved him into place and as his feet were automatically bound. “Good luck unpeeling me from your root!” Mayhem shouted over the roar as they lifted off. “Wheeeeee! I can see my house from here!”

As the Recognizer reached the apex of its flight, the shields dissolved from Mayhem’s feet. He strode forward, jauntily saluted the nonplussed Sentries, and stepped off the platform. As he fell to sure deresolution, he yelled with glee. “This is even better than being an ice storm! Wheeeeeeee!”

Upon impacting the city far below, Mayhem did not go splat like a User, nor did he fall to pixels like a program. Instead, he unwound into long threads of code. Each thread slithered into the nearest shadow, intent upon wreaking havoc (that is, Mayhem).

~oOo~

Eventually Jarvis put the debriefing out of its misery. There wasn’t much to be got from the User, but what little there was, he had obtained. There was much to her world that she took for granted he already knew. It seemed User reproduction qualified as unskilled labor! He was astonished by how little she knew of her inner workings. She was “pretty sure” she had not been past the first “trimester.” A pregnancy was measured in “months” or “weeks.” A full-term pregnancy took 9 months, or more precisely, 40 weeks (or maybe it was 38) …

More precisely! Jarvis snorted. A “month” could be anywhere from 28 to 31 “days.” At least “weeks” did not fluctuate. He filed a request for data on the anatomy and physiology of the ISOs. Those wretched viruses had also duplicated themselves with reckless abandon.

Jarvis held little hope of enlightenment from the main records. His Excellency had purged the ISOs so very thoroughly, perhaps the very memory of their compilings had been erased. That would be admirable caution. Those degenerate life-forms had been hard to delete. They were tenacious of life. Even encysting the data would have been risky. But perhaps there was something useful in the hardened archives. He would glean what there was and turn it over to Medical. They could compare the ISO data against that contained in the User’s disc.

Rinzler appeared to accompany the User to Clu’s quarters. Jarvis hid his disappointment. He had hoped to see her usual companion. Ah, the lovely and remote Gem! Except for those occasions when Clu wished to monopolize the User’s company, Gem remained faithfully at her side. “Like a tick on a dog,” as the User had once said. She had declined to provide Jarvis with an explanation of that simile.

Jarvis thought Gem admired the cool efficiency with which he had handled the unfortunate incident.

(Caught between conflicting directives, Jarvis froze in place and ground like a burning-out engine until Gem told him firmly: “Override. Prioritize. Survival of the User.” And she was correct. His Excellency had forbidden them to touch the User, but were she to de-rezz in her distress, the consequences would be terrible.

Urgently, Gem added: “Jarvis. I doubt she can be restored from backup.”

This spurred Jarvis to action. He knelt, hoisted the User, and followed Gem where she led. This decisive action felt oddly heroic. He hoped Gem noticed how impressive he looked. Not that he needed to impress her further, but no doubt he made a dashing sight, carrying the User in his strong arms! No doubt he appeared even more masculine than usual.

Head held high, shoulders squared, Jarvis followed Gem to Medical with manly stride. It was fortunate he didn’t see the blood on his boots until later, when he could shriek in private.)

~oOo~

A program wept on the shores of the Sea of Simulation. He had just consigned what remained of his only creation to its depths. In his distress, he didn’t even notice Godzilla rising from the poisoned waters. Not until Godzilla politely asked him, “Excuse me, sir. I’m supposed to stomp Tokyo. Could you please give me directions?”

~oOo~

It is hard to know how this whole thing got started. Perhaps it started with one family’s tragedy, about five years ago.

“Ed. I want you to go on living. I want you to marry again.”

At these words from his wife, Edward Dillinger wept. No one was more surprised than he. It was embarrassing. It was not the one manly tear allowed by cinema, but a miserable flood, complete with blubbering and snot. He buried his face in the sheets of his wife’s sickbed. The nurse would eject him if she heard him crying and thus upsetting “Mrs. D.” After all, he had hired the most vigilant of caretakers.

Ed had loved Alicia for over thirty years. It was strange how in his eyes, she never seemed older than 25. It was a kind of double vision. Junior had familiarized him with the term “beer goggles.” Perhaps he had his own pair of “wife goggles.” Of course Ed saw time do its work. However, that time made Alicia more beautiful than ever, more than any mere girl could be. She had earned the lines in her face and the gray in her hair from worry over him, over the children …

Dear God. It was only because of Alicia that the children amounted to anything. She had held the family together during his two years in Club Fed. During the trial, she had played her role to perfection. She had downgraded her makeup to the bare minimum of foundation and lipstick; still pretty, but not pretty enough to threaten the women of the jury. In simple, elegant attire, with pearl earrings and one modest strand of pearls, she had looked like a cloth-coat Republican. She out-Nancied Nancy Reagan. She was the sweet, loyal wife who could not conceive of her husband ever having committed any wrongdoing.

She displayed a mask to the public, and her performance was nothing short of magnificent. In private, she had displayed more savvy. In the dingy visiting room which stank of sweat and despair, she had told him: “Don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know.”

“Alicia. You’re my wife. You can’t be forced to testify against me.”

She took his hand and answered what he dared not ask, the question that haunted his days and especially his nights in lockup: Will you divorce me, Alicia? “I meant what I said, Ed. Till death us do part.”

“For better and for worse.” And this is the worse. His voice had been bitter with the thought. How could he have been so careless? If he survived this, he would never again underestimate artificial intelligence. He would not humiliate his family. _He would not get caught!_

“The way the state of California keeps changing the marriage laws, some rat might come up with a way to make me squeal. If you want to confess, save it for your lawyer.” She squeezed his hand and smiled wickedly. “We’re already working on arranging conjugal visits.”

Ed had leaned across the table and kissed her. He wanted to drag her to the floor and take her right there. The guards separated them even before he’d got a good grasp on her. Good God, couldn’t he even embrace his own wife?

“Later,” Alicia whispered after the guards finished upbraiding him. Her face hovered near his. She dared another kiss, a bare but not chaste brush of lips. The touch was like flame. “We’ll get through this, Ed.”

And they had. How Alicia managed it, Ed would never know. However, getting through the criminal justice system did not end it. Since no one would hire him after his incarceration, he’d hired himself and toiled long hours clawing his way back to their previous level of comfort. It was pure grind, starting his own company. Junior had his anger management problem and a few scrapes with the law as a result. After he’d calmed down, there were the girls’ troubles. Sally had to be bailed out of a disastrous marriage. Flora had her “substances” (with her usual exquisite taste, her addictions were respectable ones — alcohol and prescription pain medicine). All doing well now.

Was there a balance? Thank God that the children were doing well; curse God for taking Alicia? She never gave up on any of them. She never played the martyr about it. She wasn’t angry or noble; she was simply, quietly there. Alicia was incapable of giving up on a loved one. It was not in her nature.

After he was done bawling like a baby, Ed attempted to continue their conversation. He felt abnormally calm; he could bear the sight of tubes and oxygen and turban. He saw past the ravages of disease to the woman for whom he’d lost all sense: Miss Surfer Girl, Miss Natural California. She had always disdained plastic surgery. She didn’t even dye her hair. Why go through all that hassle just to fight your own destiny?

This was where destiny had brought her. Cut, poisoned, and irradiated, all to no avail. He had sought the best that modern medicine could provide, and this was what he had bought for his beloved. Her sickbed had become her deathbed. “Palliative care,” they called it. Translation: Nothing we can do now but keep her comfortable. His eyes fell on the morphine pump. She was still in pain at times. The experts said any more painkiller would kill her. _What difference does it make? God, when will it end?_ warred with _Please don’t go, oh please —_

“Alicia …” His voice was calm, but he could only manage her name. “Alicia.”

“I want you to live. I’m laying down the law here, Ed. Live!”

Ed looked at her with wounded eyes, and she saw the driven young man he had been. Tall and scrawny and brilliant. Wickedly funny. Angry. She wondered again what she had never thought before her illness: Had she been foolish to take him on? It was such a disloyal thought, the sort of thing she wouldn’t let cross her mind before. However, facing death had made her take stock of life.

I knew he was a challenge when I married him. A handful! Junior is so like him … Face it. I wanted a challenge. I wouldn’t settle for less. It was exciting. Ed’s not perfect, but neither am I. He never raised a hand to any of us. Worked his ass off for all of us. It was hard at times, but it was a good life. One hell of a ride! It was worth it, worth it all.

Alicia studied her husband. She was past all anger and guilt now. Even the fear was mostly gone. She wondered about the mistress. Of all the times for Ed to take one! As the saying goes, there’s no fool like an old fool. Oh, but Ed took his fear and guilt very seriously. He hadn’t touched her since the diagnosis.

Whoever the mistress was, she had Ed tied up in knots. If he wanted to be punished, the other woman was obliging him. Still, perhaps she was not a bad sort … Alicia laughed inwardly. She thanked God she’d made sure the kids’ money was tied up in a trust, hog-tied and padlocked by the sharpest of lawyers. The mistress, no matter what sort she was, would never get her hands on that part of the estate. She was welcome to the rest.

Ed choked, “I was never unfaithful to you —” Until now. Not for lack of opportunity. Success had brought many offers, both subtle and overt. It had been very difficult at times, resisting temptation, but he had sworn to forsake all others. Until death us do part. As much as for Alicia, it was for the children. He did not want them to grow up the way he had. He wanted them to have everything he hadn’t.

Whatever had he managed to buy for them? What was it worth?

“I know. I know. Live, Ed. I want you to live. I want you to love.”

Alicia Dillinger died four days later, surrounded by her family. She was lucid to the end. She said her good-byes to her daughters and her son. There was no more need to discuss the future with Ed. Instead, they had reminisced about the past: I’ll never forget the first time I lay eyes on you. And I you. Remember when you tried to teach me to surf? Oh, boy!

She told her daughters that their father would almost certainly remarry. She begged them to accept it. She did not so instruct her son, since he already knew about men and their needs. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Junior understood men and their needs, all right, but he was still pissed at his father for marrying that French canapé.

~oOo~

The Credible Hulk (not Incredible; this Hulk always backed his rage with documented sources and reproducible results) carefully placed his reading glasses in their case and put the case in his coat pocket. A place for everything, and everything in its place. He shrugged out of his coat and removed his jacket and tie. Okay, that would do. He handed these outer vestments to the puzzled but dutiful program who handled such items. Then he tipped his hat to her, and added the hat to the pile. She scurried away more quickly than usual to find its proper place.

The Hulk turned to the other programs at work and emphatically cleared his throat: “Ahem!” The workers took notice of him, and gawked. They’d never seen anything like him before. “Everybody out,” he told them. His voice was soft but had the force of command; he was instantly obeyed.

When the Hulk was alone on the premises, he posed dramatically and bellowed “HULK SMASH!” He grinned and began methodically smashing the energy plant to bits. “Damn,” he chortled, “I love saying that.”

~oOo~

Perhaps it had started with another family’s tragedy, also about five years ago. Robert Huffheim, the West coast’s “condo king,” died of a bad batch of insulin at the age of 47. He was survived by a wife, age 34, and three daughters, ages 15, 12 and 8. Actually, they were his stepdaughters; he would have adopted them but for the ferocious opposition of their bio-dad. They were a close, loving family. They moved in all the right circles and gave to all the right charities.

Robert Huffheim was a pillar of the community. Everyone agreed that it was a crying shame, a tragic loss to his many friends and his lovely family. Only the murderess knew his that death was no mishap. It had been carefully arranged to appear as such.

~oOo~

All Opal wanted was a drink to help her unwind after the shift from hell. Murphy’s Law had paid a visit; everything that could possibly go wrong had, and at the worst possible moment. After cleaning up the mess and herself, she had rezzed on a monk-like outfit and gone straight from the Armory to the End of Line. She needed loud music and friendly faces. Maybe Gem would be here. Opal wished she could tell her what had happened. Gem had a way of making these things funny instead of a pain in the processor.

In her haste Opal had donned basic black, highlighted in white. She wore her “happy wig” of long, straight white hair. She liked its contrast to her dark skin. It merged into the fat white stripe down her back, from the collar to the bottom of the long tunic.

Opal looked about for Gem. She hadn’t seen that girl in too long. She’d settle for a chat with Castor. Usually he was too cheerful for Opal, but right now she wasn’t particular where she got her cheer. She flagged the barkeep for another drink.

“Ahhhh, cherie,” an unfamiliar voice cooed from the barstool beside her. “Un belle femme skunk. You look _ravishing_ tonight.”

She rather liked the way he talked, but wasn’t sure what he meant. “My name is Opal.” With a cool, professional smile, she turned and saw —

“Pepe LePew is my name.”

Opal felt her smile slip as a sense of utter wrongness hit her like a stench. Whatever the thing was, it seemed to take her disgust for encouragement. It caught her nearest hand in his. “Come wizz me to the Casbah, my own artichoke, and sample zee garden of delights!” He began to kiss his way up her arm.

Opal was small, but she was no pushover. She was a seasoned Siren, accustomed to handling programs most unhappy with being sent to the Games. When she could not extricate her arm from the grasp of the — whatever, she used her other hand to swat him over the head with her disc. Not a death-blow, just a stunner.

The thing fell from the barstool with a satisfying thud. He immediately righted himself with a smug grin. “Oh ho ho,” he chortled. “My angel of love wishes to play zee games, no?” Something like miniature bits orbited his head, twinkling and twittering odd noises.

“Crash it!” Opal groaned. The arm he had smooched was going numb. She fumbled for her baton and managed to pop a staff from it. “Alert! It’s a virus!” Or a virus-infected innocent, but the remedy was the same. She thought of the Abraxas plague, and shuddered.

Some nearby Sentries tore their attention from the glowstick types. About glitching time — “Careful, don’t touch it! Or me!” Opal hacked at the virus with her staff, to absolutely no effect, unless you counted his happy giggles. “Come, darling.” He flung stubby little arms about her. “We cannot deny our feelings!”

The staff fell from Opal’s hand; the virus’s embrace was sapping her. She grabbed her drink and clumsily managed to stick it, umbrella and all, up his nose. Still he giggled! “Oh Ada!” Opal cried, both an oath and a prayer. In desperation, she rezzed a costly grappling hook (so what if it put her in hock for a heptacycle) and fired it through his torso. A ragged hole appeared there, but he did not pixelate. He was not even discouraged. He looked to the horrified onlookers and shrugged with great Gallic aplomb. “Eef you have not tried eet, do not knock eet!”

After a shocked pause, the onlookers ran screaming from the laws-of-physics-breaking virus. This hindered the approach of the Sentries. The DJs had time to change the musical scheme. Finally, _finally_ the Sentries (those null-witted primitive functions!) arrived on the scene and found a working strategy, containing Pepe and Opal in separate (thank Ada!) buckyballs. This halted the numbness that had crept too close to Opal’s core. Still, she swore vociferously as the Sentries rolled them away to be (if the Users were kind) debugged. “You reeking contagion!” was the kindest term she aimed at Pepe.

“Ah, my kumquat, to be zee prisoner of love, eet is glorious! Do not despair! We will again make zee beautiful music togezzer!” And he sang “Please release me, let me go” until Opal wanted to kill him even more than she already did.

~oOo~

Perhaps the start should be dated to about a year ago, as Dr. Eva Popoff, HR director of Future Control Industries, pored over a stack of old-fashioned paper files. The hard copy format was required, for purposes of confidentiality. As if that would stop her from using and/or disseminating this information in whatever fashion she deemed fit! However, on this occasion, Dr. Popoff wished to keep on the quiet. These manila file folders held employment applications “red flagged” by old Dr. Smith himself.

F-Con enjoyed a well-deserved reputation in the tech industry for unearthing hidden talent. Still, Dr. Popoff had to credit her stepson for launching this recruitment drive and throwing the project their way. Of course, the credit for subverting old Dr. Smith, ENCOM’s trusted head headshrinker, was all hers. Good man, Dr. Smith. She owned him. He was bought, and knew it, and stayed bought. After all, she had unearthed the true reason behind his retirement from a lucrative private practice.

Dr. Popoff pored over the file of one promising candidate. Age 19. Female; that was a bonus. Indifferent grades from an indifferent high school. A trust fund brat with no interest in higher education. Still, the aptitude tests were promising. High verbal. Good eye-hand coordination. Better at spatial orientation/mental rotation than most of her sex. Dr. Popoff chuckled. The boys in the Games department would be thrilled by the company of a girl — even a plain one. Weak math. That could be improved with further study; Dr. Popoff saw that the innate ability was there.

She noted that Dr. Smith had done a long interview. She flipped past the transcript to the heart of the matter: the psychological profile. It was a thing of beauty. It fairly bristled with red flags: “Disdain for authority.” “Indications of pathological personality.” “Possible sociopathic tendencies.” Yes. Just what she was looking for. No criminal record, not even sealed “juvie,” but an investigation into the death of the girl’s stepfather was _definitely_ warranted. Why such hostility towards the mother and stepfather? Dr. Popoff had a few theories. One theory in particular would explain the girl’s sheer hatred of her own dear mother. Men do as they will, after all.

Dr. Popoff pulled out her ePad and unearthed the media coverage of the sad event. Ah. The stepfather had succumbed to a brief illness, “complications of diabetes.” No doubt Mummy Dearest had been unpleasantly surprised when most of his estate went to the girl and her two younger siblings. However, Mummy had wrung a sizeable out-of-court settlement from the pharmaceutical company. The manufacturer of the insulin. Very interesting.

Dr. Popoff smiled. Yes. Oh yes. This was a girl after her own cold heart. They shared a philosophy: in this world, there are the weak and the strong. Do what you must to be among the strong! It’s a man’s world, and men do as they will. There is no escaping that hard fact. However, a clever girl can use that fact —

Dr. Popoff reminded herself of the official reason she was doing this: minority outreach. The Justice Department was displeased with ENCOM for being far too Caucasian. So Junior had their psych and symbology people (that is, Public Relations) run an outreach program: hey, all you minorities, pass our background check and battery of tests and maybe we’ll hire you. Except for Jews and Orientals. We have enough of those.

Dr. Popoff conjured up photographs of the girl’s parents. Ironically, the mother appeared Han Chinese. But the biological father was a Red Indian straight from the Dust Bowl. With a wry smile, Dr. Popoff returned to the psych profile. The girl stubbornly held onto her father’s accent in defiance of her mother’s social pretensions. The hick act also tended to make people underestimate her — she was just a li’l ol’ Okie from Muskogee. Useful. Clever.

The girl hadn’t checked the “ethnicity” box. Now, checking that box on the application was not required. But that was the whole point of this outreach program. Dr. Popoff studied the father’s strong features. The girl looked too much like him. Unfortunate. Also unfortunate that he hadn’t been officially enrolled in any tribe. The law was clear: you weren’t an official Native American unless Uncle Sam said so. Dr. Popoff wondered if he was of one of the casino tribes. They had got stingy with membership. If she were a betting woman, she would bet good money that the girl had decided to let ENCOM pick the right pigeonhole.

Very well, then. Dr. Popoff would do the fibbing for her. She checked a box: Hispanic. The girl and her sisters all had Christian names that could be read as Spanish, and the surname could have been anglicized. Who knows? Perhaps it had once been “Cruz.”

Dr. Popoff re-read the entire psych profile. A sense of comradeship sparked something approaching a “warm fuzzy” in her breast. She simply _had_ to introduce this girl to her dear stepson. It would be entertaining to watch, like two scorpions in a jar. The girl was young, but Dr. Popoff thought perhaps she was Junior’s equal. Perhaps.

Dr. Popoff removed the interview transcript and the psych profile. She tucked them away for her own use. She gave what remained of the file her stamp of approval. “Welcome to ENCOM, Ana Maria Crews.”

~oOo~

Rinzler was silent but for an occasional brief rumble, sort of like a distant lightcycle. In Annie’s current mental state, she didn’t mind hearing that. He padded beside her, an implacable, rock-steady presence. She was back in zombie-mode, mostly. She felt okay. Maybe a little lightheaded. She hung onto Rinzler’s arm. She could hang onto it as hard as she liked, and it wouldn’t budge. That was comforting. Ironic, considering the unfortunate first impression Rinzler had made. Yeah, remember when we met? Good times. Nothing like a bit of friendly sport.

Rinzler stopped, and Annie found herself staring at the entryway to Clu’s quarters. Her stomach knotted up. She released Rinzler’s arm and fingerspelled an interrogative: G-E-M? Rinzler signed “occupied” in an abrupt fashion that told her to ask no more. Damn. Annie hoped Clu wasn’t repurposing Gem. She needed Gem. At least, she was used to her. Didn’t trust her, but she was used to her.

Rinzler shifted very slightly. Before Annie could see what he was up to, he’d pressed a corked vial into her hand — one of his own special-formula stash. Annie would have been touched by the gesture, if not for what it meant: at the very least, Gem would be considerably delayed. Not good. No telling when the next feeding time would be. “May I have another?”

The bug-like helmet swung abruptly towards her. She could feel him glaring from behind that opaque mask. His stance delivered a clear message: You’re pushing it, bitch. In one motion, he gave Annie another vial and shoved her at the entryway. The doors opened before she could bounce off them. She staggered inside, barely staying on her feet. That did not concern her. Her only concern was sustenance. She looked at her hands. One vial was clutched in each.

Two vials, one shove, no bruises. From Rinzler, that added up to a virtual declaration of — well, not love; respect, maybe. This thought gave Annie the strength to face him and say “thank you” graciously, with no hint of cringing. It did no good to cringe before Rinzler. If anything, it made things worse.

It sometimes helped with Clu. He didn’t mind cringing one bit. Hell, he liked it.

Rinzler did not acknowledge her thanks. He was a statue, in the deferential slump he assumed around Clu. Back in awaiting-orders mode. The doors closed on his broken purr. Annie was glad to lose sight of him. Twice before, she’d seen Rinzler display hints of individuality. She preferred him with all the autonomy of a toaster.

Yeah. Out of the toaster, into the fire.

She took a slow, deep breath and let it out even slower. She turned to inspect the quarters for any sign of Clu. Hi, honey, I’m home!

No Clu. Annie felt the tightness in her belly unloosen a notch. He was off doing… something. Maybe he’d keep doing something for a long time. Maybe forever.

Nope. Not gonna happen. He’d be back. Annie stared at the vials in her hands as if they were highly interesting. She wondered what was up with Gem. Not that she cared much. But Gem had charge of the care and feeding of the pet User. Maybe Clu was gonna just leave her in here until she starved to death.

No, if that were the plan, he’d have stuck her back in a circuit. She died in his quarters, it would stink things up. He’d have to fumigate. That would be _inefficient._

For the first time, Annie considered following up on Gem’s intimation that a message could be got to the Creator. Which was no title for a mortal man, but Annie was desperate enough to overlook that.

No. No way. Kevin Flynn was almost certainly dead. If by some miracle he still lived, he’d be nuts by now. On the Grid for twenty years! She almost pitied the poor bastard. Even after the way he'd fucked things up. Still, she'd forgive him that, she’d forgive him _anything_ , if only he would get her out of this. He could fuck her up the ass every day if he got her out of this. Annie wondered if there was a way to code that in a message. Maybe she should just come out and say it.

No. No, no, no. Flynn couldn't help her. If breath remained in his old bod, he was ready for a padded cell. It was just as well that Annie had ignored Gem's hints. She was just trying to trap her.

To be scrupulously fair to Gem, maybe she wasn’t. But Annie could not afford to take that risk. She certainly did not trust Gem's pal Castor. What a bitch queen. He made her skin crawl. And that techno-crap music of his! She’d like to bump off his DJs and download her entire MP3 collection to his precious club. She’d make him listen to all the Highwaymen until his platinum-pomaded head exploded like the evil Martians in _Mars Attacks_ —

A familiar pair of paw-like feet walked into her vision. “Take a vial,” said her pal Bugs Bunny. “You’ll feel better.”

Annie raised her head and glared down at Bugs. _Where the hell were you, anyway?_ Not aloud; she was careful not to speak aloud to her pals (or hallucinations). Clu could read her disc, but not her thoughts. He’d never seen her pals on her disc. Which strengthened the case that she was hallucinating. Which was okay with Annie. At least her thoughts were her own. _Where were you when I needed you?_

Bugs cringed, ears drooping. No doubt he sensed her homicidal mood. “I’m sorry.” Bugs looked as mournful as could be. For such a happy, laid-back creature, he sure could look sad. He made a “drink up” gesture. “You’re gonna need it. The Empress’ll be here soon.”

_What, in person?_

Bugs nodded solemnly. “Yup.”

That was a rare occurrence. What could the Empress have to say? Annie feared that old lady. Even though the Empress was her second oldest pal, after Bugs.

(Error. The Empress was her oldest pal. One night [or day] Annie looked up from where she lay on the floor of her circuit. She was surprised but not alarmed to find a strange Chinaman looking down at her. No, Chinawoman. A very young woman, almost a child. Made her think of baby sister Clara. She was very pretty, like Clara. Looked like she’d end up gorgeous, like Mama. Annie scowled at her. Chinagirl smiled pleasantly in return, and then spoke in a voice far too canny for her tender years. "My most distant descendant. We are women. Loyalty and ethics are luxuries we cannot afford."

"I know that.” Annie realized she was only bewildered. She was not at all frightened. The lack of fear was a welcome relief. It also made her realize she must be dreaming.

"Men are such fools,” Chinagirl said evenly. “Feed their egos, and you can feed them poison and they'll think it's candy. You know how, daughter." She favored Annie with a sly smile. “You know how. It’s not like you haven’t done it before!”

For some reason, Chinagirl was now holding a clay jug. She poured poison-green liquid from it into a Grid-style flask. She drank it down in one easy swallow. Annie watched with avid interest as Chinagirl morphed from a very young woman in humble garb into an old woman dressed like a queen.

"Outlive the son-of-a-bitch. Survival is the only revenge you can afford. Of course," the old queen said smugly, "living well is the best revenge of all. I'm curious to see if you can manage it."

Annie sat up to drink in the message. She was impressed by the display of jeweled and gold-embroidered silk and velvet. Having been trained from infancy how to dress to advantage, she could price the old queen’s clothing. Whoever she was, she had lived very well indeed.

The old queen bent down, joints creaking, and kissed Annie’s forehead. “Survive, daughter.” It was delivered like an imperial edict, but that was okay. It felt like a prediction.

Annie did not remember the dream. All she knew was, she felt much better when she woke up. And things started getting better with Clu after that.)

~oOo~

Raymond Parker Crews had a bit of the sight, as his Irish ancestors called it. (He didn’t know what the Indians called it.) Mr. Crews named his firstborn after the Santa Ana winds, because she was a force of nature. He named Raquel after his favorite actress, the lovely and talented Miss Welch. With her looks, smarts, and bubbly personality, she was destined for success in showbiz. He named his baby Clara for the clarity of her vision. Indeed, she saw things clearly. There was no bullshitting little Miss Clara!

~oOo~

Annie had been missing from the world of the Users for six days. Despite her lack of affinity with the human race, a few of them were starting to miss her. One of them had gained access to the ENCOM tower.

“Oh! Hi,” said the very young woman who had just bounced off Junior. “Are you…” She consulted a sticky note. “Edward Dillinger, Junior?”

Junior felt his heart lodge in his throat and skip a beat. He swallowed it back into place. He had been prepared to upbraid the source of the collision, but instead he blinked at a vision: pale-gold skin with hints of peach and copper, big dark eyes, a cascade of thick, blue-black hair — The sight and scent of her went straight to his dick. She was an idealized version of Annie. Prettier face. Bigger tits. Much bigger. With heroic effort, Junior kept his eyes on hers and off the VISITOR badge attached to her snug cashmere sweater. “Please. Call me Junior.” She was taller than Annie, too; in those ridiculous pumps, she was almost his height. He liked that.

“I’m Rocky Crews. Annie’s sister. I was supposed to meet her for lunch.”

“Rocky?” He could not imagine a less boxer-like being than this junior goddess in training.

She beamed at him. Junior felt dizzy. (It is a scientific fact that being beamed at by a lovely woman, up close, in person, hits a straight man like a line of cocaine.) “Well, really it’s Raquel, but everyone calls me Rocky.”

Junior was meeting Senior for lunch. In an almost out-of-body state of mind, on the spur of the moment, he asked the demi-goddess semi-Annie to join them. She cheerfully accepted.

Rocky looked back on that luncheon with both satisfaction and shudders. It had been a real acting challenge. Father and son were both tough, shrewd men; she couldn’t just bludgeon them with her boobs. Boobs helped, of course, but they weren’t enough. So she kept the jiggling to a minimum. Keeping up the silly, casual air, she convinced both Dillingers that she wasn’t at all worried about Annie. “She’s been so caught up in work lately.” Bit by bit, she adjusted facial expression, tone of voice, and body language until she had them both in the twilight zone of reminiscence. She made them (subconsciously) think of Alicia, who was never far from their minds, especially when they were together. This was a great distraction and lowered their formidable defenses.

Rocky had no idea who Alicia was. She had applied a deep technique of the craft, working the audience’s vibes until they were on your wavelength and totally into the “willing suspension of disbelief.” It was tricky. Also dangerous. She couldn’t be too obvious about what she was doing. She did not _dare_ overact.

Rocky was never more grateful to her baby sister. Clara was her biggest booster and sternest critic. If Rocky could sell a performance to her, she could sell it to anyone. At going on 13, Clara was a living lie detector. And what was acting but glorified lying? Only problem was, you could not be caught in the lie. Thus, in her quest to be a serious actress, Rocky had implored Clara to be ruthless with her. Rocky couldn’t remember how many times Clara had told her, “Gag. You’re overacting.” It must be a hangover from cheerleading. Sis boom bah, my butt!

So Rocky sampled the California fusion cuisine and chattered like a flake and surreptitiously recorded father and son. “Oh, we’re all-American mutts. Irish and Indian and Chinese and no telling what else.” She did not falter in her act until driving away from the ENCOM tower. Departing its long shadow, she was hit with a case of the shakes and nearly missed her exit. She thought: What I really want to do is direct. That way I won’t have to get a nose job.

Rocky drove straight home and played her Flynn Phone (officially an ePhone, but nobody called them that) for her little sister. Clara watched the gif file with her usual disgruntled scowl. She was doing classic Goth today, complete with deathly dramatic makeup. She looked like a Eurasian Morticia Addams. “The old man doesn’t know a thing about where Annie went.” Clara froze the screen and pointed an accusing finger at Junior. “ _He’s_ lying his goddamned head off.”

“Clara, mind your language.”

“He’s also fucking her.”

Rocky felt her jaw drop. She stared at Clara, in a freeze-frame of her own. For a long moment, she couldn’t think. When she could finally move her brain, she wondered what their current stepfather would say. Oh, she knew just what he would say! Lovers and ex-lovers were _always_ persons of interest. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Rocky finally unfroze enough to ask, “Are you sure?”

Clara cast a withering glance in her general direction. “Body language. He kept his face under control, but you made him think of Annie. Good work,” she added grudgingly.

“Shit,” Rocky whispered.

“Raquel, mind your language,” Clara sneered.

“What now?” Holy Mother of God. I was sitting at that little table with Annie’s … murderer? Did — did he kill her?

“Call in the heavy artillery,” advised Clara. “Aunt Inez and the Sheriff.”

The Sheriff was their stepfather. “They can’t tell he’s lying the way you can.”

“Maybe they can find someone who doesn’t have his head up his ass, some profiler who’s not just bullshitting. They take classes in reading people, you know. The FBI and ‘experts’ like that.” Clara loaded the word ‘expert’ with infinite scorn.

“We oughta call Olafsson first.” The family lawyer. “Maybe there’s laws against me recording like that.” Rocky feared the wrath of the Dillingers and the dread legal powers they surely wielded.

Clara saw that Rocky’s hands were trembling, and decided to text on the Flynn Phone herself. “Okay. I’ve made an appointment with Lurch.” Her fond nickname for Mr. Olafsson. “He can tell us if the ‘authorities’—” another scornfully applied word— “will accept proof positive that Junior knows something.”

Rocky let herself flop back onto Clara’s bed. She wanted to yank off her preppy dress-for-success/retro cheerleader outfit. It felt … dirty, somehow. She’d never used her powers for evil before. Naughtiness, maybe, but not evil. But it wasn’t evil to lie in pursuit of the truth — was it?

Clara elbowed her. “Show time.”

Oh yeah. Time to change anyway. Rocky slouched to her own room and squeezed into costume. After dealing with the Dillingers, portraying a Vulcan ninja vampire assassin would be a snap. Maybe it would even take her mind off things. To get her mind in the right place, she told herself: I am a professional. I am a serious actress.

With that resolve, Rocky made sure she was able to move properly, virtually shrink-wrapped in Spandex as she was. As she sat at her vanity: I am a professional. I can do my own hair, make-up, and prosthetic ears.

A half-hour later, Rocky and Clara were in their own private green-screen room. (That option was becoming popular in the McMansions of Malibu.) There they worked on Rocky’s class project from the magnet high school. Clara considered it nothing but a fancy MMRPG, but Rocky insisted it was the drama of the future. It wasn’t just a video game; it was true acting, even if it was on the Internet. Internet-acting, a.k.a. inter-acting, was unlimited by space or time!

Clara was skeptical about the lack of limits on time. Sometimes she had to make Rocky stay on time. Rocky would get caught up in the joy of working with artists on the other side of the planet — when the signal was steady. There were frequent technical difficulties. And then, God help them, there was the alleged narrative. In a new application of the “cloud,” the audience generated the story line. The good news was, Rocky had a loyal following and was in the running for most hits. The bad news was, it got harder all the time for her to write scripts that accommodated the more outrageous plot twists. However, Rocky was convinced that she had yet to write anything as stinky as _Avatar_ , and look at the dough James Cameron had made from that POS!

Clara ran a tech check. When the green-screen room’s cantankerous doodads were soothed, she started things with the traditional “Lights. Camera. Action!” The traditional opening still applied; there were three big lights, hundreds of tiny lights, and dozens of small cameras. The transmission from London was solid. A regular player was on, in frilly dress and ready to start. (Rocky said it was David Warner in drag, but Clara didn’t believe it.) Except for the beamed-in image of the London player, the green room remained green. Scenery and special effects were to be filled in by the FX students.

Rocky brandished an aluminum halberd at her fellow professional and declaimed: “Halt, Companion, or you will never again behold your beloved Time Lord!”

Clara had developed her own sign language of critiquing. Eyeroll. Nosepinch. Mimed nausea. This time she went for the middle critique: she mouthed “Gag” and pinched her nose.

Rocky dropped the halberd. Her lower lip quivered.

“Now, love,” said the David Warner soundalike, “what _else_ can she do with a script like that?”

Rocky started to cry. Her acting and writing stunk. She was going to flunk. The cheerleaders would all laugh at her. Annie was _missing_. She could be a total bitch sometimes, but she was their _sister_ , and she was _missing_ , maybe even _dead_.

Clara glared at the projection of the London player. She noted the manjaw and large Adam’s apple above the froufrou neckline. Not David Warner, but some other old guy. “You’re an ugly broad,” Clara told him, and ended the transmission.

Rocky wailed in despair. The day had totally caught up with her. Clara rushed over and hugged her. The sisters leaned on each other, rocking back and forth, wobbling on high heels as they propped each other up. Nobody else would do that for them. They’d always had to hold each other up.

~oOo~


End file.
